


Little Monster

by 617th



Category: Overlord - Maruyama Kugane & Related Fandoms
Genre: Explicit Language, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-10-29 14:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17809616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/617th/pseuds/617th
Summary: In which you are standing in the shoes of a youth snatched from death of innocence. Dreams now taken from  hanged mans grave, you find color in world unfamiliar. This next life coaxes hope anew, and with eyes drawn to the warmth of the sun you find a flush fate. This is a story of the lost boys trek into Neverland.





	Little Monster

_Clink!_

“Why’d you pick a heteromorphic race?”

“The horns look kickass. I like it.”

 _Wh--You’re such a dumbass!, That’s so like you!, I think it’s a good choice. you only get one chance, after all._ Scoff and slam of  stubborn foot to tabletop jostles aesthetic fruit arrangements. Besides, a scowl edges annoyance. Taloned hand comes down to shove boots off and break balance of perpetrator. It isn’t the stumble, the fall backwards - but the -1 that drifts into oblivion that has humor a slow thunder through the room, bouncing off walls.

The wide oak table is near empty, but those that gathered sit bunched at the head near a high-backed throne bedazzled with far too many stones of magic value used as decorum etched into the marble in airy patterns - this is shared, though to a lesser degree: the draconic motif still present in the other seats. Fifty in total, yet only five are filled.

Three to your left, and two to your right.

Foul language fuels the warmth that fills the room floor to ceiling, smiles in the teases tossed to the now bashful and bash-hungering fool of the hour, deep black eyes flicking from the furious two foot terror to the tiger-inspired monk beside him, looming with a look of indifference but caramel voice of _come-get-it-little-man_. A third, a small elven girl frantically hopping up on her chair to separate the two, begging for not only the fighting to stop, but to not use such colorful language. Across the way, a half-woman half-dragon is overusing the clap emote.

There is something that clenches in your chest, a happiness that was left to imagination only realized now in the final moments of existence within this beautiful world -- it _almost_ hurts.

“Céce, could you spin for kag--g.. _got_. For Maggots...zz?”

Your eyes linger on the sight, taking bottle into hand to twist. It’s disheartening. You’re going to miss this.

 

_Tink!_

 

“Oh, it’s my turn! Here, here I’ve had such a hard time wrapping my head around it, so this is-” “Spit it out, Flikwer.” _Spit it out!, Spit it out!_ “-A wonderful time to ask! What’s the guild name about? I always look at it and… golly, so embarrassing! --I can’t pronounce it!”

“Ódiphanage. It’s… a pun.” _Oh, of course it is., Shh!_ “..Ódin, some god in Norse mythology, and orphanage. I thought it’d be fitting considering...”

Eyes all about the table (blues, browns, greens, all so familiar. Like a home) slowly draw to figure standing to guildmaster chair’s side - to _your_ side, all feminine and placid smiles. You stare a bit too long at the godly-ghost painted cerulean.

“Besides, Ódin apparently fucked _nonstop_. I thought it’d be a nice tribute.” _C--Cérise!!_

Slight uproar in the hall, half cringing and other finding keen amusement in statement - one _distraught_. Statement would have worked it’s wonder and restored the jubilant atmosphere that was sought, if only you hadn’t lingered your gaze on the swoop of seraph wings and slow-rotating halos, how she glowed with that angelic light that forsook true intentions. If only you hadn’t been caught up in your memories, when you turned back to your mates they wouldn’t have had fallen silent in their knowing.

Shift in seat, the chains of your desired weapons clanking, silver-like to fae-gold, against your gilded seat. Uncomfortable, looking elsewhere as others do the same. Fretful, the ominous cloud of something-Ragnarök-or-another breathing down all presents necks.

 

_Glass sound number three!_

 

“Who got you into the game?” This makes you pause, as does amber eyes cool on yours in mute knowing. Collected is Bael’s voice, a drawl that pulls back from oblivion trap. Bubble teeters on edge of fragility, of tears stubborn - dance the conversation on golden claws away from self in stumble. Easy catch to right, metaphor broken with clatter. A careful move, like that of chessmaster: of a leader. _They should have been guildmaster, not you_.

“No one.” Your mouth moves before you can think on them, consider course of action. So unlike the mute you, to speak on impulse, yet here you are. Stutter in train of thought, consider doubling back so that you can perhaps continue to remedy the situation just as your friend had intended, as you had intended.

Fingers fold, and you slump backwards. Opt out of the contact, gaze at chandelier glittering rose.

“I was never allowed to have friends, to go out. My life is just… studying and being dragged around by my dad. I thought I was going to die of a heart attack at, like… fourteen.” _No one asked for your life story._ Flick of wrist, a thumbs up thrown out. A half-hearted attempt, “So I threw a fit until I got a NNI. From there, YGGDRASIL was the DMMO that was the most interesting to me.

"I’m glad for it.”

A sigh echoes from the left, fingers curling into fuzzy black mop. You always found it immersion-breaking, how emotion could be expressed through voice and gesture but the face always stayed the exact same. The piercing silver gaze of the resident ranger stuck in a constant smugness, set-interval blinks in a one-two pattern.

“So, what you’re saying is, when the servers shut down you’ll be back to some soul-suckin’ monotonous schedule, with no friends or way-how? That you’re gonna be alone and it’s gonna fuckin’ eat ass?” You wonder what he _really_ looks like, under that virtual mask.

“M-Maggot..”

“Can it, Minette! Pretending everything’s okay ain’t doing nothing but makin’ us all walk on eggshells. It’s _miserable_! Can we stop playing spin the bottle like some middle schoolers already and _face the facts_?” Tone fierce like cornered animal, rising in volumes and crackling under the stress - higher and higher, his rage being taken out on his friend ( _your_ friend) for her gentle reproach, avatar shrinking back with hands up in defense. Blindly, he continues. “You know as well as I do this is _so_ fucked! Like I get that you’re a pussy and all, but can you stop being bitch-made for just fifteen _fucking_ minutes so we can--”

Clench of fists, frantic and twitching - she’s whimpering. She’s _crying_. You hear the grind of teeth behind mic, the wrath so just and misdirected. Realization has shoulders rolling back, defiance swelling chest. A small curse, Maggotz turns away, chair toppling, and shuns himself away in a corner. You don’t know why, a memory is triggered, but just as quickly push it aside in favor for belligerence.

There is another wave of quiet, so loud. It gives you time to situate yourself emotionally, the outburst not surprising, but teetering _overwhelming_. You wish someone would speak up, wish Bael would do his magic or Flikwer would chime in with an absurd and misplaced pun. You can’t do this: you don’t _want_ to handle this. Don’t move your eyes from downward cast, hold your breath.

You really wish someone- **_anyone!_ **\- would speak up.

“He’s right.”   _He’s right!, He’s right!_

Well _shit_ , you take that back.

Singh stands with one motion, the wide body of his Nephilim form pushing his chair backwards and blocking your view of half the tables residents. Purple locks ripple down his well-muscled, tanned back and the gnarled mouth with ugly protrusions in forms of teeth tear across his face, chest like wound. Yet it’s the eyes, teal specks sprawled across his body (made to _intimidate_ : the idea of every angle being caught in his all-seeing gaze,) glittering like trophy wives jewelry in sun, that set apart the giant. You always found yourself staring at the one embedded in his stomach, because that’s how tall he is compared to you, just like now.

But he’s not looking at you. Sweeping across the rest of the table with slow turn of head, letting words sink in before continuation.

“I came here to say goodbye, not-” _I came here to say goodbye!, I came here to say goodbye!_ A sharp intake of breath, snap of head over your shoulder and in the direction of his echoes,  lift of finger only to flick down by the wrist as if commanding a dog to sit.

“Shut up.”

 _Thunder claps_ , the earth shaking and furnishing about the guild hall quivers with weight: the in-game effect that comes with two absolute units bowing down. While you do not look behind yourself to watch, others do with interest you no longer share. Eyes glued to the Nephilim as his shoulders loosen, arms pulling up to cross over his chest as long, gnarled fingers rest on just absurdly huge biceps. Second attempt, _louder_ this time.

“I came here to say goodbye, not feel bad about things no one can help. It was fun, but that’s just it: **_was_**.” You catch a glimpse to your left of the resident centaur spamming the pout emote, the flicker annoying but bringing a smile to your face beneath the virtual mask. You love her like a sister. “I don’t intend to spoil the memory with one of Maggot’s temper tantrums and everyone buckling under the pressure. It’s over.”

You watch Singh’s posture flex, the speech becoming rushed and jumbled, and know this isn’t what he had intended to say in the first place. Spur of the moment, rush of emotions that he’d certainly like to continue to pretend he was above… it’s _this_ cantankerous nature that both bonded him to Maggotz yet gave them something to fight over. Yet, the half-elf did nothing: silenced.

“Bye.”

[SINGHymns is now offline]

[MAGGOTZ is now offline]

“I’m sorry…”

[mittens is now offline]

And then there were three.

You’d reached out far too late, seeing your own arm extending outwards towards where Singh had stood. Drop it like anchor and look down at your lap, letting the silence sink deep into your bones.

“Flikwer, Céce?” “Just go.”

It surprises you, the needlepoint voice: the acid as you spit the demand. For a moment you don’t realize that it’s you who said it. Even your two companions look (again, no facial expressions: it’s just the vibe you get -- oh, and Flikwer hesitantly giving a singular frown emote) at you with the shock you feel.

You look back, half in bullheaded rebellion and half in the self-stun dawning.

The monk inclines his head, away from you with hand coming up to touch the back of their blonde, shaved skull. Guilt wells in them, yet..

“Right.”

[BaBaBael is now offline]

Two.

Flex your fingers, watch the talons of your draconic form sparkle in favor of letting the weight of the situation be seen with your own two eyes. How out of fifty chairs, of seven sentinels, within the span of a palmful of minutes. With only a handful of minutes left. You are not the most expressive person. Christ, you don’t _feel_ much of _anything_ -

But it almost _hurts_.

“They need to check on Mittens and Maggotz, Céce. Bael is their _brother_.” There is bite to the always whispery tone of Flikwer, who now stands by your side with hand to armrest, just in view of your sullen gaze. There is anger in you at mention of familial ties, a self righteous _what about me, am I not important? Am I not a sister to them, too?_ Bite it back, know it’s wrong.

You don’t acknowledge her, and she moves closer with insistence and such heartfelt plight in voice. “I’m not asking you to understand, Céce. I know you can’t. It’s hard, it’s really, really tough on you, and I don’t blame you for being angry. Just..”

Hand slides to yours, the phantom sensation of warmth almost the straw that snaps your back in two. Jaw sets and eyes flutter shut.

“Don’t hate them for it.”

Honey iris on you, flickering from one point of interest to another in search for ounce of acceptance. Effort, emotion, something, anything. There’s a beg in her gaze that rips you apart from the inside. Work tongue over teeth, let now well introduced silence linger like wraith over head and heart.

“I’ll think about it.” Bubbling spite eats at your tone, and what happens next has your heart leaping out of your chest.

“I know you will.” Soft warmth drapes itself over her words in the stead of true union of flesh, her embrace loosening that notch keeping your memories in check. She’s _hugging_ you, you remember that something.

_Your father has never hugged you._

Just as quick as her arms looped around your small shoulders, they’re not. She’s gone from your side and halfway down the guildhall before you can register what’s going on, and all you can do is watch her dreads bounce off freckled shoulders. She has your attention, you’re looking up with befuddlement now at her. You don’t have hers, as she only glances back at you when the clatter of chains hitting the tabletop (It’s you leaning forward to call with confusion, _ask what’s going on? Where are you going?_ ) and offer up a smile emote.

“This’ll be my last chance to try and get past Ainz OOF Gown’s sixth floor.. and you know fifteen minutes is pushing it even for a world champion, let alone _five_!” There’s a giggle in her voice, and a pump of her fists as she turns to face you fully. The clop of her hooves a prance on the crystalline flooring accompanied by the _‘tally-ho!’_ emote has your heart throbbing and stomach swooping. Inch forward, knees to the edge of the throne and that hand which was tossed out to the first to leave now reaches for she who you loved as a sister, who flashes her guild ring in an over-the-top stolen-from-jjba-fashion pose. _Wait, please-_

“Wish me luck!” _-stay with me_.

One.

You’re like artwork in this moment, frozen in time as you watch the blue trail with nothing but unbreathing statues and you yourself feel as if one of them. Made of coding threaded together to sculpt beauty and beast alike, your personality written in three sentences consisting only of anger, childish, and lonely.

Limp arm drops onto the table, shoulders slumping and exhaustion vaporizing your resolve, your hope for an ending full of smiles. You had a speech prepared, but unlike him, you remember the words now in silence: in _numbness_. --In acceptance.

No one is here, and think to yourself in mind of bitter heartbreak: isolation is to be your death. But you don’t want to be alone, you don’t want to be alone when you sleep or when you wake, you don’t..

[Area Message]

Come to Guild Hall.

The room slowly floods with NPCS, eyes snapping from the ever opening, closing double doors to the clock becoming a nervous tick at this point. Adjust self to be slumped on the throne, arms wide and stance that of  lounging dragon. Think of your time here (really here, in this hall and in your first realm) and fight the pain. First the feelings that fester like wound.

First pair comes into sight, and another three. You don’t have time to wait for them all to arrive and seat themselves at the table, and so you launch into your prepared speech, unstumbling in the face of no one who could speak.

“My friends, both new and old, we are gathered here today to face the wolf’s unbinding with dignity and grace.”

The words come easy to who you pretend to be.

“The end is here, yet we stand before the gaping maw with our hearts full and eyes on the horizon of the new day that is sure to come. We all, those present and those not, have left our footprints in the sands of time.”

Your roleplay persona, _bastard of the dragon god_ \- wellspoken and strong, someone who commands undying loyalty to those who come into her companionship. From deep within the bowels of Alfheim you had risen, an unloved child of wealth and power.

“Strive ahead still into the new dawn, for even when we leave this plane there is another memory to be had.”

Destined to outlive all she held dear, found in this era.

“Childrens children, and then on into oblivion: we will walk. We will live with those that have left in our hearts beating bright. We…” Swallow hard. _No_. “ **_You_ ** all will live, **_you_ ** will all be happy and smile in this new world. Will dance. Will drink. Will fight **_your_ ** own fights and be strong in my stead.”

Destined to outlive all she held dear, _only if she allowed it_. Produce a Medusa’s Tears (Such rare poison, it’d be a shame to let it go to waste. Best used for dramatics, in front of your inanimate audience) from your inventory without the flourish that presents your words, projected voice that falls deaf on each and every set of ears. The last of the NPCs has arrived and seated itself to your side, and your breath catches.

Details blurry in frantic scan, in the clock rattling your brain and snagging your heartbeat. A minotaur, soft gray fur and droopy ears. Gentle brown eyes with pink nose to resemble your first pet. Little wings, a sundress, pink to compliment your own color scheme. Your heart-

Her name is Lala. _Céce’s best friend, who loves her unconditionally._

You almost realize, in this moment, how much you’ve let this silly game become your home. That this is your house, that this is your family. You don’t want it to sink in.

That it _hurts_.

“I love you dearly, my friends.”

A bell chimes thrice, and you taste bittersweet cranberry.

[00:00:04]

“Goodnight, little princess.”

* * *

 

 

> “You are drowning in your own blood because you are afraid. The desire for absolution. The nostalgia for a shelter. A shelter. Like a spell.” — Rhea Galanaki, tr. by Karen van Dyck, from “The Cake,” written c. 1980

* * *

 

 

  
 

**Author's Note:**

> momonga in booty shorts that say “god won't let me die” on the ass
> 
> this community is trash and it drained all my motivation to continue writing this. bye!


End file.
